Without Dreams
by DebbieB
Summary: In a secret journal entry, Petunia Dursley reflects on a hidden talent.


In Britain, one is not supposed to be overtly involved with one's body, or the forces that drive it. They are like rain, or driving on the left, or subtly deriding the French. They are a fact of life, just another given in our orderly lives; nothing to be discussed or agonized over, not such a big deal as the Americans or Italians would like to make of it.

I achieved the impressive age of twenty-two before losing my virginity to the man who would become, for better or worse, my husband. I just past thirty when I bore him a son, and, then, never again.

I've watched in scornful silence most my life as people discussed the miracle of birth. They call it a "glow," and call a pregnant woman beautiful, when in all honesty it is just the vitamins the OB/GYN supplies at the beginning of prenatal care that gives the expectant mother that look of supreme health she may never again achieve once she's gotten rid of the football in her belly and relinquishes even the dream of a full night's sleep for the next five to ten years.

If the truth is to be told, and I must tell the truth here, if no where else, I hated being pregnant. I loathed the extra weight, the exhaustion, the morning sickness which hit me like a freight train run amuck. I hated the extra attention, total strangers asking me when I was due, people, everyday people who were otherwise perfectly respectable and sensible, rubbing my stomach like I was Surrey's first female Buddha.

I hated the dreams I had. I didn't tell anybody about them, not even Vernon. Until this writing, I've never told anyone about the dreams I used to have. My mother was dead then, and Lily…well, Lily was off with her own universe and her own dreams.

I never liked boys, never wanted to give birth to a boy. I understand girls, as much as I am capable. But boys—

When the doctor told me Dudley was male, I smiled tightly. Oh, Vernon could have floated all the way to Liverpool when he found his child was of the masculine variety.

I hated Vernon throughout the entire pregnancy. Oh, don't get me wrong. Vernon did right by me, as much as he could. He was patient and accommodating, and only asked for sex infrequently, when absolutely necessary as it were. And he bought me little presents with surprising regularity. He doted on me, and the unborn child I bore, the tangible proof of his masculinity waiting inside my uterus to spring forth into the world as evidence of Vernon Dursley's machismo.

He was the absolute perfect husband, and my pregnancy was absolutely perfect, and the baby was fine and healthy and strong in my womb.

And I hated it, every bloody, disgusting minute of it. I hated the creature inside me.

There. I've written it down. I dreamed of boys when I was pregnant, horrible, detestable, mocking boys, and I hated the son I carried inside me. I knew, in that awful way I've always known, that my dream was prescient. I knew I was dreaming of the monster inside of me, of what he would someday become.

And I knew, just as I knew that someday her magic would be the death of Lily, that no amount of trying on my part would stop the child in my womb from turning into that horrid, loathsome monster.

Magic is an ugly thing, and pregnancy makes it uglier.

I never asked Lily what happened to her during pregnancy. Did she suddenly lose control of her powers, hurling dishes across the room when a wave of morning sickness hit? Did glasses break around her, or radios blare on for no apparent reason?

Prescience is not magic. It's just a stupid mental trick, scoffed at by most trustworthy scientists. I learned long ago not to talk about my dreams. They were stupid, really. Anybody could dream about a fire the night before a neighbor's home burned to the ground. It was just an overactive imagination.

I learned to control them very young. Hard work, tireless effort—those were the tricks to overcoming silly dreams. I learned not to sleep until I was too tired to dream. Easy enough, with a houseful of liberals and not enough of them dedicated to order and tidiness. I threw my energy on a worthier cause when Vernon entered my life, and he provided me with endless opportunities to kill my dreams with exhaustion.

Pregnancy, with its hormones and absurd focus on hopes and plans and possible futures, was the only thing that killed my control.

When Dudley was inside of me, I couldn't tire myself enough to dull the dreams.

…dreams of boys, loitering on street corners and pounding on smaller kids, of knives going awry…

…dreams of cold nights surrounded by so many objects and no warmth to be had from any of them….

…dreams of sickly green lights….terrible green lights….

I didn't cry when the letter came telling me of Lily's death. I try not to cry anymore. Besides, I already knew it was coming. I just didn't know when.

And I knew about The Boy, too.

My only connections to the magical world—dreams and The Boy.

Now they're both gone; and good riddance, too.

Vernon is downstairs, working on the renovation plans. He's thrown himself into it now. It's all he has left, now that Dudders is gone. He… _we_ doted on that boy, for all the good it did.

Vernon has his things, now, his position in the firm.

Lily and that man have The Boy again, finally.

And me? I just have my sleep now, thankfully without dreams. Magic is gone, at last, from my life. And that's good enough for me.


End file.
